


Who's The Idiot Now?

by PlaneJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Innocent Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Misunderstandings, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: Merlin is new to Camelot, and he often gets lost. Sometimes he sees things he shouldn't. But he's not an idiot. He'd never tell anyone, except maybe Arthur. And one time, when he's very upset, Gaius.As far as Arthur is concerned, Merlin is an idiot. He doesn't understand how anything works in Camelot. Arthur finds it hilarious, until he overhears Merlin confiding in Gaius. Which leaves him with a terrible dilemma, and one burning question: who's the idiot now?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 337





	Who's The Idiot Now?

**Author's Note:**

> Set early in S1, with some creative licence. 
> 
> I wrote this palette cleanser after completing NaNo, and I needed a bit of crack and a bit of fluff. It isn't beta'd. Mistakes are my own.

**Merlin**

Merlin leaves Gaius’s rooms shortly after dawn, sleep-slack and shivering. Searching for a morsel of warmth, he thrusts his hands into his pockets.

 _Uh oh_.

Gaius’s words from the previous evening ring in his ears. “Take this vial to the Lady Bedevere. It’s a tonic for her… imbalanced humours.”

“Okay… and where would I find the Lady Bedevere again?”

Gaius had raised an exasperated eyebrow. “Upper corridor, East Wing.”

Merlin had no clue where to find the East Wing. He only knew that Arthur’s chambers were in the West Wing, on the opposite side of the castle, and if he wasn’t quick-sharp with Arthur’s supper there would he hell to pay.

Merlin had meant to swing by Lady Bedevere’s chambers on his way back. He really had. But it had been so late, and he’d been so tired. Not to mention the castle is huge. A month after his arrival, Merlin still gets lost. It’s a different world from Ealdor, with its twenty or so huts.

After jogging along one long corridor, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, and over a courtyard, Merlin finally asks a stony-faced guard the way to the East Wing. Without speaking, the guard points back the way Merlin came.

Before Camelot, Merlin had never even seen a flight of stairs. These days, he runs up and down dozens before lunchtime. Breathlessly, he reaches the upper corridor of the East Wing and knocks firmly on Lady Bedevere’s door. _At least my hands have warmed_ , he thinks to himself.

Lady Bedevere answers the door in a long, loose nightgown. She looks an absolute fright. Her salt and pepper hair is tousled, her cheeks flaming red. Those imbalanced humours must make her restless and wild at night! Her agitation reminds Merlin of the lady in the next hut in Ealdor, when she was going through what his mother called ‘the change’.

“Good morning, my lady,” Merlin says with care. “I have your tonic.”

“I needed this last night,” she says. No word of thanks.

Through the open door, Merlin catches a glimpse of a servant kneeling at the fireplace. He looks a lot like Tom, one of the older, friendlier stable hands.

Then Merlin notices the strawberry shaped birthmark on his cheek. “Hi Tom,” he says, almost sure it’s him. Tom turns his head, but before he can reply, Lady Bedevere slams the door in Merlin’s face.

Merlin jumps back. _Here we go again._ In Camelot, there are nobles, knights and servants, and endless ranks in between. Different rules for different people on different occasions. More than likely, this is another rule Merlin has failed to remember: servants aren’t supposed to greet each other in the presence of a noble.

By this time, Arthur will be awake and expecting breakfast. Merlin runs what feels like three miles to the kitchens. After collecting Arthur’s laden breakfast tray, he walks another mile contemplating what he might have done to offend Lady Bedevere, and if indeed that was Tom stoking her fire.

When he reaches Arthur’s chambers, the door is ajar. Could it be that Arthur thoughtfully left it open to make it easier for Merlin to enter? This cheers Merlin no end; allows him to breathe just a little more easily. Maybe Arthur does have one or two redeeming qualities to offset his arrogance and general prattishness.

Arthur sits at the table. Drumming his fingers in a steady rhythm. (Not singing. Singing is apparently only for girls and bards, except when it’s a bawdy sing along with the knights.)

“Morning, Arthur.”

“Greetings, Merlin. But _morning_? Is it morning?”

“Er, yes. I think so.”

Arthur eyes his porridge disdainfully, and passes it over for the bread and sausage.

The bed is unmade. That would be because it’s Merlin’s job to make it. He doesn’t need reminding today, and sets to puffing the pillows, smoothing the bedsheet. Happily, for the most part Merlin knows where he stands with Arthur. Sadly, that includes Arthur’s dire views on magic, but Merlin doesn’t dwell on that too much. For all his mordancy, Arthur is fair and loyal, and mindful of his people.

“Can I ask you a question?” Merlin says.

“ _May_ you ask me a question.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, that’s not what you said.” Arthur sighs. “Never mind. What is it?”

“Do you know if Tom, who works in the stables, is a twin?” It’s the only possible explanation. Twins surviving past birth and into adulthood are a rarity. Even in a place a large as Camelot, Arthur would surely know if Tom has an identical brother.

Arthur studiously chews on his bread. “No. He has a younger sister. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I thought I saw him in Lady Bedevere’s bedchamber. He was stoking her fire. But Tom’s a stable hand, not a manservant.” Merlin adds with chagrin, “She didn’t take kindly to me saying hello to him, either.”

Arthur coughs. Then coughs some more. The bread must not have been fresh. Merlin quickly pours Arthur a goblet of water and slaps him heartily on the back.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, clearing his throat.

Merlin smiles. He’s getting the hang of this being a manservant. However, Arthur, stares at Merlin for long seconds, eyes narrowed. Like he suspects Merlin of mischief. “ _Stoking her fire_ , you say?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“What?” Merlin asks, vaguely wondering if Arthur is going deaf.

Arthur’s mouth curls up the at the corners. “Nothing, Merlin. You carry on.”

Merlin isn’t sure what part he plays in Arthur’s mood (if any). Arthur’s present congeniality could be due to the fine sausage he’s greedily gobbling down. Nothing to do with Merlin being the bearer of said breakfast and puffer of his pillows. That doesn’t change the fact that seeing Arthur enjoy his repast most undoubtedly has an effect on Merlin: a warm, fluttery sensation low down in his belly.

⸙⸙⸙

During the next few days, the weather turns colder. While fetching Gaius some winter savoury from the kitchen garden, Merlin remembers that Arthur had that morning instructed him to fetch lambskins from the stores. Arthur would expect them on his bed this evening. The sun is already dipping below the horizon. Merlin will have to run… Unless there is a short cut.

There is no short cut.

The last two times Merlin went anywhere near the stables someone lobbed clods of manure at him. To avoid a repeat, Merlin instead takes a convoluted route that skirts the knights’ quarters and the armoury. Which in turn reminds Merlin he still needs to collect the last of Arthur’s armour. He thinks he left it in one of the workrooms with the benches.

 _Morning was like such a long time ago_ , Merlin considers wearily.

The door to the armoury is jammed shut, and Merlin has to put his shoulder into getting it open. A rack containing lances has tumbled over, causing the blockage. Merlin picks them up, softly whispering a spell to speed things along ( _he hasn’t got all night, for goodness sakes_ ).

The door to the workroom is also closed. Beyond, Merlin hears a grunting noise; the sound of furniture scraping along the floor. Merlin swings open the door, calling out, “Hello! Need some help?”

There’s little light and it takes a few seconds for Merlin’s eyes to adjust. Behind a rack where straps and harnesses hang, there’s movement. One is a knight. (Merlin recognises his tabard). The other is bare-chested, head and shoulders lowered, pressed over a large workbench, almost lost in shadow.

He whips his head up, and his expression is pure pain.

Merlin recognises that high forehead. That weirdly egg-shaped head. There’s a running joke there’s barely a helmet big enough for young Owaine. One of the new knights.

At almost the same moment, the other knight, a strap wound around his fist, leans around Owaine. He’s older. Fiercer. He glares at Merlin, black, glinting eyes piercing through the dim light.

Merlin stands his ground. Arthur can be harsh. He had joked once about making Merlin walk on his knees. But he’d never physically abused him. Certainly never beat him.

What transgression could Owaine have possibly made to incite such violence?

None in Merlin’s book. None whatsoever.

“Is everything all right, Sir Owaine?” Merlin says shakily.

The older knight hisses, “Clear off. _Now_.”

Merlin runs all the way to Arthur’s chambers. He isn’t sure how he gets there, but he’s gasping for air, his chest heaving. The herbs in his pocket are crushed. He’s forgotten the lambskins. And Arthur’s vambraces and gauntlets are still in the armoury.

Merlin is in so much trouble. But not as much as Sir Owaine, and that spurs his explosive entrance into Arthur’s chambers.

“Merlin!” Arthur says from behind his writing desk. “How nice of you to knock.”

Merlin glances back at the door, then at Arthur. “I didn’t…?” He doesn’t have time for a discussion. He has to help Owaine. _Now._ “Who’s that knight, the older one with the black beard?”

Arthur’s shoulders sag. He drops his face into his hands. There are a lot of papers on the desk, and Arthur hates dealing with papers. No wonder he looks despondent. Good job Merlin has arrived with something more important for his attention.

“Sir Galahad?” Arthur sighs, lifting his face a fraction.

“Yes, I think that’s him.”

“Why?”

“I just saw him and Sir Owaine in the armoury. Sir Galahad was… well, I don’t know exactly. But he had a strap around his fist, and he was hurting Sir Owaine. I could hear Owaine cry out from outside the workroom.”

Arthur purses his lips into a thin line, as if he’s trying to hold back a laugh.

“It’s not funny. You should have seen Sir Owaine’s face. He was hurt and terrified. You’d never treat me like that.”

Pressing his palms to the table, Arthur stands. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Arthur nods but he’s got that condescending look about him. His smug-faced git expression. He isn’t taking Merlin seriously.

Granted, Merlin isn’t a knight. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of the knights’ code. But he knows what it’s like to be bullied. Merlin huffs and stomps and stabs the poker into the fire, grateful Arthur hasn’t mentioned the lambskins; furious that Owaine’s plight is ignored.

In the end, Arthur comes to stand beside Merlin and doesn’t even pretend to swipe him with the back of his hand. “I’ll have a word with Sir Galahad and Sir Owaine.”

“Will you?”

“Yes. But in return, you must keep this to yourself. I will deal with it.”

Ah. Another rule. Nobles don’t get into trouble for the same behaviour that would put a commoner in the stocks or in the cells. Merlin doesn’t like it, but he grudgingly agrees. Arthur is as good as his word, and Merlin might yet get away with not finishing his duties.

Merlin smiles at Arthur. Arthur smiles back. And gives Merlin a small (dare Merlin say _, affectionate)_ shove.

Arthur won’t notice the missing lambskins tonight. Merlin has _ensured_ the fire is warm, extra warm. That’s why his cheeks burn. Nothing to do with the way Arthur’s eyes light and crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Nothing to do with how Merlin’s heart skips a beat when Arthur’s gallant and heroic.

No. Nothing at all to do with that.

⸙⸙⸙

Ice on the ground deters Merlin from cutting across the courtyard to Arthur’s chambers. He slipped over yesterday, and his bum bone still throbs painfully. He’s sure there’s a bruise.

But as he heads towards the main staircase, he’s halted by the sight of Sir Galahad talking with King Uther and some other nobles. Merlin manages a nifty swerve that unquestionably looks like he meant to head in the other direction mid-step, and legs it along the passageway. No one is pulling his ears today, thank you very much.

Merlin probably legs it a bit too far, as he finds himself in a poorly lit passage that ends at the bottom of two flights of stairs, one ascending left, one right. Disoriented from his sudden flight, he takes the left staircase. There’s half a chance it’s the correct choice.

Some distance along this passage, Merlin hears muffled laughter. He debates turning back and trying the other corridor, or trying to sneak past. He doesn’t want to barge in on a private joke. Trouble is, he’s already taken far longer than the few minutes he’d told Arthur he would be, running an errand for Gaius.

Approaching the sound slowly, silently, Merlin makes a mental note to learn an invisibility spell. The bother it would save him!

There’s another giggle. Two giggles. Merlin hears the rustle of silken fabric, and up ahead, the skirt of a pale blue dress peeking out of an alcove. Merlin relaxes. He knows those voices and that dress.

“Gwen?” he enquires.

Gwen whirls around, eyes wide as saucers, smiling manically. “Hello, Merlin!”

“And Lady Morgana,” Merlin says.

Morgana is crammed in the alcove behind Gwen. Despite Gwen’s efforts to cover her mistress’s modesty, Merlin sees the dangling laces of Morgana’s bodice. Her flushed cheeks.

“Hello, Merlin,” Morgana bites out.

Feeling a bit cheeky, Merlin says, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think we’re doing? Playing hide-and-seek?”

“It looks more like sardines to me, but what do I know?” Merlin grins as he hurries by. Poor Morgana. She’s normally so well turned out. So pristine. It’s mean to think so, but Merlin feels some relief that Gwen isn’t always as diligent as everyone thinks. Fancy not lacing Morgana’s bodice properly before leaving her rooms. If Merlin was as sloppy with Arthur’s armour, the trouble he would be in!

Merlin knocks and enters Arthurs chambers.

“I’m back,” Merlin says. “And I knocked.”

“You’re supposed to wait for me to shout ‘enter’ before you come in.”

Indeed.

Merlin reads the _why do I bother_? in Arthur’s expression, which he finds oddly satisfying. Then Arthur says, “You look cheerful.” And Merlin feels his blush rise from his neck to his ears.

“I just saw Lady Morgana and Gwen, squished into an alcove together. Apparently, _playing hide-and-seek_.” Merlin raises his eyebrows.

In case Arthur doesn’t understand, as he can be a little slow on the uptake, Merlin adds, “Actually, Morgana had a wardrobe malfunction and Gwen was trying to lace her back in. You should have seen them!”

Arthur’s glowers, and it suddenly occurs to Merlin, “All right. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been appropriate for you to see it. She is practically your sister, after all.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly. I mean, I know you have the best manservant in the whole kingdom, but it’s not beyond the realms of belief that one day your trousers might accidentally fall down. And I expect if they saw it, Morgana and Gwen would laugh their heads off.”

“For the love of all the saints, Merlin.” Arthur shakes his head with no trace of mirth, but Merlin knows full well if he’d been there he’d have brayed like a donkey.

At that moment, the door flies open and the Lady Morgana storms into the room. Her anger is probably down to embarrassment, so Merlin tactfully busies himself clearing away Arthur’s breakfast… and lunch.

“Arthur, might I have a word?” Morgana asks, her head menacingly tilted to one side.

“Of course.”

Merlin catches her death-glare out of the corner of his eye. “In private,” she says.

“Why? It’s only Merlin.”

_“Arthur.”_

“All right. Merlin, take the tray to the kitchen and don’t hurry back.”

That’s a first!

Merlin finishes piling up the tray. He doesn’t exactly dawdle on his way to and from the kitchens, since he’s become quite good at this running about everywhere lark. When he arrives back at Arthur’s door, he hears raised voices. Arthur and Morgana are arguing.

Merlin doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Morgana’s voice does have a certain intensity when she’s riled.

“You can’t be serious. No one is that stupid.”

“Wrong!” Arthur says triumphantly.

Morgana lets out an exasperated cry, then the door swings open. Morgana doesn’t even look at Merlin as she exits in a flurry of fabric. She doesn’t look back as she yells, “Speak to him, Arthur. Now!”

Does she mean Uther? Morgana seems to row with him at least once a day. If she’s dragged Arthur into it, he’ll be in a foul mood.

Merlin braces himself. And yes, there Arthur is, leaning against the table, his arms folded across his chest. “Merlin. We need to have a little chat.”

_Me?_

“But I’ve still got to polish your armour. And muck out the horses.”

It’s worth a try. Merlin already senses this is not going to end well.

“That can wait. Sit down.”

Butterflies fill Merlin’s stomach. He’s about to get a telling off and he has no idea what for. There are so many possibilities.

“Merlin.”

Arthur has taken an avuncular tone. He’s laying a trap for Merlin. He’s about to back him into a corner and… _oh no_.

_Please please please please please, don’t let this be about my magic._

Merlin grips the arms of the chair, assessing the probability he can make it to the door before Arthur seizes him. Fool that he is, he’s fantasised about being seized by Arthur nearly every night of late. But his nocturnal indulgences never end in his head being lopped off with an axe.

“Tell me about Ealdor,” Arthur says.

A deep breath, and Merlin answers, “What do you want to know?”

“Your parents, do they live there?”

“Only my mum. I never met my dad.”

“I see.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you leave behind a sweetheart?”

Merlin frowns, confused. “No.”

He ought to be relieved. If Arthur is broaching the subject of Merlin’s magic, he’s taking an awfully scenic route to get to it.

Merlin is not relieved. The back of his neck breaks out in a sweat.

Arthur continues, “No past flames, no summer loves?”

“No.”

 _No._ Merlin scowls into his lap. There had been no summer loves. Or spring, or autumn, or winter loves for that matter. No one would jump the Beltane fire with him—he was the only youth in the village to spend the night alone. As if Merlin doesn’t feel the pain of that wound keenly enough, Arthur rubs the salt in a little more.

“What about your friends?”

“ _Friend._ Will. Yeah, he has a girl. From the next village. He was always sneaking off to see her.”

“He never brought her back to Ealdor?”

“ _No_. What is this about?”

Arthur has the good grace to appear uncomfortable. Awkward.

“Discretion, Merlin.”

Merlin’s mouth drops open. Closes. Opens again. He has no idea how, what…

Arthur starts pacing. Never a good sign.

“All right. Imagine you burst in here, like you do, without knocking, and I was entertaining someone. A lady, for example. Could I rely upon your discretion?”

“Of course.” Merlin wasn’t a complete idiot.

“Likewise, if in the course of your duties you accidentally found out Tom that works in the stables had spent the night with Lady Bedevere, I trust you wouldn’t go around blabbing to all and sundry about it?”

“Tom and Lady Bedevere?”

“Yes, Merlin.”

“But she’s married to _Sir_ Bedevere!”

“Who has been visiting Escetir for the best part of a year.”

That’s no excuse! Not to mention, “She’s so much older than him. And she’s a noble.”

“Yes, Merlin. But that’s not really the point. You see, the heart wants what the heart wants, and it’s not always what convention dictates.”

Lady Bedevere must have confided in Morgana. “I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t realise.”

Merlin’s heart plummets. Arthur would be justified in calling him an idiot for not realising that Tom had been warming Lady Bedevere’s sheets. But it pains him that Morgana would imagine for a solitary second Merlin couldn’t be trusted with that knowledge. On top of that, worst of all, the thought of Arthur bringing someone to his bedchamber? It’s unbearable.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure I knock. And wait for an answer.” Merlin fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket, knowing that he should stop there. The sting of humiliation will pass. There’s no need to speed his passage to another afternoon in the stocks.

“The thing is,” Merlin says. The rest comes out faster than a bad case of the trots. “I am trying to get things right. But between working for Gaius and for you and I have a lot of different things to do. And I often have to rush, but the castle is so big, and I keep getting lost and think that’s why I don’t always see things for what they are.”

Merlin blinks away the prickling in his eyes; waits for Arthur to tell him to stop being a whining girl. Which is wrong and ridiculous. If Merlin was a girl then for one thing, Arthur might be amenable to him warming his bedsheets at night. And for another, Merlin would be much better at completing multiple tasks without making a mess of all of them. Like the indomitable Gwen. (Lacing Morgana’s bodice notwithstanding.)

That’s not what Arthur does though.

He rummages in his armoire and pulls out a large scroll. When he unrolls it and weights the corners, Merlin realises it’s a map. A floorplan.

“Is this the castle?”

“Well done, Merlin.” Arthur squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “See. You’re not a complete idiot.”

His teasing is gentle—the sort of teasing that a friend uses to tell another friend that they’re liked just the way they are, even if they’re not perfect, and sometimes they’re annoying.

Merlin makes a mental note for the next time Arthur’s down in the mouth.

Next, Arthur fetches a coin from a dish on the sideboard. He places it on the map, and says, “This is you. In Gaius’s rooms.”

With the utmost patience, Arthur moves around the silver penny, showing Merlin how to navigate the castle: The quickest route from Arthur’s chambers to the kitchens, armoury, and laundry. How to go from the kitchen back to Gaius’s rooms. Plus, many other permutations of journey that Merlin might take in the course of his duties.

The way he speaks, with calm clarity, it’s easy to imagine Arthur guiding his knights in a campaign. They won’t doubt his command.

Merlin slowly melts into the chair, basking in this rare chance to give Arthur his undivided attention. Beneath the arrogant veneer, Arthur has a quiet strength. He is kind. He will make a good king one day. He will make a good husband.

Merlin can’t dwell on the last. It’s a stake through his heart.

At last, Arthur rests the coin on the exact spot where Merlin’s chamber is situated at the back of Gaius’s rooms. “And there you are, Merlin. Safe in your bed.”

Merlin looks at the coin, placed where he sleeps, and notices that it is heads side up. The head of a king. He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he turns the coin over. On the other side of the silver penny is a bird with long legs.

Arthur eyes Merlin curiously. Merlin shrugs and smiles. “That’s more me. My mum used to call me chicken legs.”

“Hmm. Chicken legs. I’ll bear that in mind.” Arthur massages his chin, kind of jokily. Certainly fond. “Talking of chicken, isn’t it time for my supper?”

Merlin snatches up the coin. “Heads, I fetch it. Tails, you fetch it yourself.”

“Better yet... How about I clip you around the ear?”

That’s it then. Playtime is over. But Merlin doesn’t mind. The world has tilted back into its right place, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Arthur**

After Merlin leaves, Arthur takes a seat and stares at the map of the castle, turning that little silver penny over and over between his thumb and forefinger. He must have lost his innocence early, to have not even considered Merlin’s. It defies belief, but then isn’t that Merlin through and through?

Not a fortnight later, that sentiment is borne out once more in the worst way imaginable. Merlin drinks poison to save Arthur.

Against every good sense, in order to save Merlin, Arthur defies his father (without a second thought) and leaves Camelot on a perilous quest. He’s journeyed to unfamiliar places before. He’s been in danger before. But entering that cavern, never has he been so alone. Never has his life hung so precariously in the balance. Never has his defiance of his father been so complete.

Thanks to Gwen, Arthur’s trial is not in vain. The ordeal, however, leaves its mark. Arthur lays awake at night, hot and sweating, chest tight with anguish.

_Merlin almost died, and Uther would have let him without batting an eyelid._

Seeds of dissent grow in Arthur’s mind. When Arthur is king, he will not rule as his father does. Until then, he will not live as his father does: Cold. Ruthless. Loveless.

⸙⸙⸙

During the following weeks, Merlin’s strength returns. His punctuality improves, and he can on occasion be relied upon to take care of his duties. Everything should be right with the world.

Except it isn’t.

Arthur is beguiled. By Merlin.

Often, Arthur’s mind returns to the coin, to the map, and to the sparse and lowly chamber at the rear of Gaius’s rooms. Then it wanders to the young man who rests his head there each night. His insolence, his stubbornness, his smiling eyes full to the brim with life.

There’s no denying it; Arthur wants Merlin, and he cannot stop.

He gives nothing away, though. He looks, but only out of the corner of his eye. Instead, he turns his mind to his responsibilities. Such as training the new crop of knights, ready for the spring tourneys. The dark days of winter will end soon enough.

After one such training session, Arthur leaves the muddy field with dents in his breastplate, and a tear in his hauberk. One of his greaves will need replacing. He’s battered and sore. Exhausted. Unsurprisingly, Merlin is nowhere in sight.

Along with the other knights, Arthur strips off the metal in the armoury. One by one, the men depart for their quarters, to bathe and eat their evening meal. Except Owaine. He loiters, watching the others leave, until he and Arthur are alone.

“I wondered if I might have a word, Sire.”

“Of course.”

Arthur has known Owaine since they were children. He has a brotherly fondness for him, undiminished since Owaine has grown into manhood. They sit side by side on a bench in the workroom adjoining the armoury.

“Galahad wants to end our… meetings.”

Before Arthur gets the chance to ask why, the distraught young knight spills the contents of his broken heart. The anguish tumbles out like the words have been piled up on his tongue for days: Galahad wrestles with shame. The shock of Arthur’s manservant catching them has cast fresh doubts in his mind. Owaine has tried to convince Galahad he wants, _craves_ , what they have together, no matter how strange it might appear to others.

“I love him. I love how he cares for me.”

Arthur puts his arm around Owaine, and lets him talk. Owaine doesn’t seem to mind Arthur not saying anything. This might be beyond the realm of Arthur’s experience, but he can listen.

Eventually, Owaine shudders slightly. “I’m sorry. You must think me ludicrous.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s just… I knew I could talk to you. You’re fair.” Then he adds, “And you know your own mind.”

What hidden nerve has Owaine touched? Arthur does know his own mind. He might not like what it has to say, but that's another matter altogether. Owaine's affirmation helps Arthur far more than Arthur can possibly have helped Owaine

Arthur is overcome, and eternally grateful. With deepest affection, he puts his arm around Owaine’s shoulders, and places a kiss on his temple. “There. Now who’s ludicrous?”

They laugh. Hug. Well, almost. They clap each other soundly on the back and tussle each other’s hair. It’s wonderful, boyish, and chases away a dozen years.

An almighty clatter breaks their revelry. The sound comes from the direction of the entrance to the armoury. Arthur jumps up. Owaine falls in behind, and they rush towards the noise.

On the floor, across the main doorway, lays an armful of lances, fallen out of the holder. Arthur springs over the scattered weapons and out the door, still swinging on its hinge. He sees nothing out of the ordinary in growing darkness. Hears nothing but the moaning of the breeze.

Owaine says, “I expect it was a gust of wind. Someone didn’t latch the door properly on their way out.”

“Probably,” Arthur replies thoughtfully.

He returns to his chambers, expecting to find Merlin there, along with a hot bath—a much welcomed start to the evening. One where maybe, possibly, a prince and a manservant may talk of things of no consequence, and share a goblet of wine.

Arthur arrives to find his chambers empty. In the fireplace is a piffling flame, and the tub contains nothing but dust.

Arthur thought they’d got past this—Merlin randomly disappearing, or turning up late. He’ll throttle him with his bare hands. No! Better yet, he’ll ring his neck with that raggy old scarf he insists on wearing.

Grumpy and disappointed and stupidly bereft, Arthur traipses the length of the castle to see if his absentminded excuse for a manservant is with Gaius. He knocks lightly on the old man’s door, which is already ajar, then goes inside.

A stew pot simmers on the fire. The thick, heady smell of herbs fills the air. But there is no Gaius, and no Merlin. Arthur edges past the fireplace, about to call out, when he hears Merlin, from his room, cry plaintively, “But I’m so confused. Why doesn’t anyone here say what they mean?”

Confused? He sounds wretched.

“What do _you_ mean?” Gaius offers.

Arthur stops dead, and listens.

“At home, when someone offers to stoke your fire, they get the poker and turn over the logs for you.” Merlin huffs, “But here, that might mean… You know?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And if you like someone, you might smile at them, or pick them some flowers, or offer to carry their bucket from the well. You don’t have to guess that they’ve said one thing but really meant another.”

Arthur often forgets that Merlin comes from a tiny village; from a hard but also simple and straightforward life. Who is it that Merlin likes? (Arthur bristles, but holds his nerve.) What fool has rebuffed him?

Gaius responds with what Arthur is thinking. “I’m to guess then that there’s been a misunderstanding?”

“Yes. And not for the first time. You see, a while ago, Arthur gave me this lecture on discretion after I saw Tom from the stables in Lady Bedevere’s bedchambers.” Merlin draws in a sob. “Then he said, ‘the heart wants what the heart wants’.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Well, I thought…” Merlin sighs audibly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m an idiot, like Arthur says. I had no idea he meant that he liked Sir Owaine. Not until I walked in on them in the armoury. I hadn’t realised, and I feel so stupid.”

“Oh, Merlin.”

_Oh, Merlin._

Arthur’s stomach feels like it’s dropped onto the cold stone floor. Merlin’s pain is palpable. Nonetheless, he is an idiot.

If Merlin thinks that nonsense between Arthur and Owaine in the armoury is a love affair, it must mean he still hasn’t worked out what he stumbled onto with Owaine and Galahad. And quite possibly, Gwen and Morgana.

Arthur is about to enter Merlin’s room to settle the matter immediately, but before he can, Merlin says, “I suppose I should think myself lucky. When Arthur first sat me down for a chat, I thought he was going to say he knew about my magic.”

“If he found out about your magic,” Gaius says seriously, “I don’t think he’d be sitting you down for a chat.”

“You’re right. That’s the one and only thing that’s clear as day around here.”

Arthur’s knees go weak.

 _Magic._ Merlin has magic. _Merlin_ is a sorcerer.

Arthur flees, pausing in the corridor to draw in a breath that won’t fill his chest. All he can think is, _who’s the idiot now?_ All this time, his sweet, innocent, playful Merlin, a sorcerer? That idiotic, big-eyed oaf, who’s crying because he thinks Arthur is in love with Owaine? Because he had mistakenly thought Arthur had hinted that he wanted Merlin.

Which he had. And he does. Did. Does?

Merlin is confused? Arthur’s head feels like it might spin off his head like a spinning top.

He rushes back to his rooms, stopping only to ask in the servants’ quarters for someone to fill his bath. It’s unlikely he’ll see Merlin for a while, the state Merlin’s in. A good thing too, given the state Arthur is in.

⸙⸙⸙

Arthur soaks. He sinks down in the hot water, and submerges, as if starving his brain of air might slow down the questions running rampant in his mind.

The same words repeat, over and over. _Who’s the idiot now?_ Merlin has lied and deceived. Not a small lie either. Not a small deceit, like eating Arthur’s honey cakes before they reach his chambers. This is the kind of deceit that could put a kingdom in jeopardy. Not to mention a friendship.

And that’s as far as Arthur gets before Merlin arrives, with his supper on a tray.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” he says, his face averted. “I… er… Well, I’m sorry.”

As Arthur rubs the soapy water from his eyes, Merlin carefully arranges Arthur’s bowl and platter and goblet. When Arthur stands and grabs the towel from the stand, wraps it around himself when he gets out of the tub, Merlin doesn’t cast Arthur so much as a glance. No quip, no jibe. All because he thinks Arthur and Owaine were tongue-duelling in the armoury workroom?

The thing is, he’s not sulking. He’s genuinely heartbroken.

Sluggishly, Arthur dries and slips on soft trousers and a loose shirt.

To think, he was so careful with his feelings for Merlin (though clearly not careful enough). How he took great pains not to give himself away (though he did), because he had the strongest feeling that Merlin would only give himself out of love. Merlin is faithful. Loyal. Never fickle.

And yet he is a sorcerer.

Arthur sits at the table, in front of a steaming stew and goblet of wine, while Merlin tends to the fire. The flames spring to life, licking and curling, as if alive. Predatory. The warm glow flushes Merlin’s pale skin, and Arthur could swear he sees the golden, fiery light reflected in Merlin’s eyes.

If Uther found out, he would be merciless. If not the axe, then fire.

Arthur would die before he watched Merlin burn. What unsettles him most is how certain he is. The thought of losing Merlin is unbearable.

“Leave the fire.” Arthur gentles Merlin like he would a startled hound. “Come and help me eat this bread.”

“I’m not really hungry, Sire.”

“Then come here anyway.”

Merlin does as he’s bidden, but stands off to one side of Arthur, his face turned away.

“Not there. Here,” Arthur says, beckoning.

Merlin reluctantly shuffles slightly closer. He’s been hiding his face because his eyes are puffy and red. Unsure of what to do or say, Arthur pushes out a chair with his foot.

“Sit.”

This isn’t usual for them. Merlin hesitates before he finally sits, and looks into his lap, his arms wrapped protectively around himself.

Arthur slides his goblet over. “Drink.”

Merlin’s brow furrows, but he reaches for the goblet, his hand shaking. He barely wets his lips, and yet the taste makes him shudder.

_Be careful with him, Arthur._

“That was you, knocking over the lances in the armoury, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But I remember what you said about discretion. I’d never tell anyone.”

Except Gaius. Arthur almost laughs.

“Merlin. Owaine came to see me about Galahad…” Arthur shifts in his seat. How to say this in a way Merlin will understand? “When you walked in on the two of them, Galahad became worried.”

“He should be worried. No one likes a bully.”

“Merlin, Galahad wasn’t doing anything to Owaine that Owaine didn’t ask for.” Arthur snatches the goblet and downs what’s left, which is most of it. “Owaine likes to be hit with a strap before Galahad fucks him.” This sounded so much easier in his head. Arthur slams his hand to his forehead. “Oh gods, I’ve said it out loud.”

There’s a horrific pause. An agonising stretch of silence.

Until at last, Merlin whispers, “What?”

“Please don’t make me repeat it. I was not and never have been romantically involved with Owaine. I was merely comforting a friend whose love affair might have come to an end.”

Merlin lifts his face, and his chin tightens in a way which clenches at Arthur’s heart. Not the anticipated reaction, but Arthur has come this far, he might as well deal with the rest.

“I should probably also mention, Morgana’s dress didn’t become untied by accident. Gwen and Morgana were… I don’t know exactly. Probably not fucking, not in an alcove. You’d have to ask them. On second thoughts, don’t do that.”

Arthur lifts his goblet for another drink, and finds it empty. Merlin takes it from his hand, pours a refill, then slides it tentatively back across the table. “Oh.”

“Yes. _Oh._ Now is there anything else I can clear up for you? Because this has probably been the single most embarrassing few minutes of my entire life and I think I shall now get drunk.”

“No. Nothing else. May I go?”

“Yes.” 

_Fuck._ That was not how the conversation was meant to end. Still, Arthur drinks his second goblet of wine and devours his supper. He’s in desperate need of fortification.

Meanwhile, Merlin picks up Arthur’s wet towel from the floor. He works through his chores as if his heart is too heavy for his chest. Some burden it must be, Arthur supposes, being an idiot (in love?) and a sorcerer. Goodness knows what trouble Merlin will land himself in if he doesn’t have Arthur to protect him. To cherish him.

To love him for all that he is.

The wine has loosened the threads of doubt. Merlin. Sweet Merlin, turning down the bed. Almost finished for the night. Arthur doesn’t want him to leave. Not like this. But how to broach… how to begin?

No more messing about. Though maybe that’s exactly what they ought to be doing. Resolved, Arthur slams his goblet on the table. “Would you like to play a game?”

“I still have to tend to your armour.”

“That can wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m not very good at games. You won’t enjoy playing with me.”

“Oh, I think I might.”

Merlin falters. “It’s getting late.”

None of what he says is a ‘no’. Arthur offers a smile. “How about hide and seek?”

“Don’t tease me, Arthur,” Merlin says sharply. “Please. I’m not in the mood.”

Arthur stands, slightly dizzy. A lot nervous. “I’m not teasing. Go outside, and count to twenty. You can count that high?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, and the corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Good. Twenty. Then come back in here and try to find me.”

“You won’t lock me out?”

“Why would I do that? I’m trying everything I can so that you won’t leave.”

The words slip out. Merlin’s eyes widen slightly, but Arthur’s admission seems to do the trick. Off he goes, counting loudly enough Arthur can hear through the closed door.

Somehow, Arthur manages to slide under the bed. Where he finds a beloved pair of socks, missing this last month. Plus, rather a lot of dust. Though no rat droppings, thankfully.

Merlin calls through the door, “Coming, ready or not.”

Arthur bites his bottom lip, as a sudden thrill courses through his body. Not the fierce thrill of a fight; something more playful. He holds in a giggle, as he sees Merlin’s boots walking into the room, heading directly for the screen by the bathtub. _Wrong! Not there._

Next, Merlin swings back the curtains. Finding no one behind them, he grumbles softly to himself, and in turn, Arthur has to clamp his hand over his mouth.

Loudly enough for Arthur to hear, Merlin laments, “He can’t possibly be under the bed. His head is far too big.”

Arthur almost splutters with laughter. Surely Merlin will look under the bed to check anyway? Arthur braces himself as Merlin’s footsteps approach.

Only, Merlin doesn’t bend down and find Arthur. He sits on the edge of the bed. Has a little bounce.

Well, two can play at that game! Arthur is a warrior. He can hold out under the bed all night if necessary.

Merlin ponders silently for a few seconds, then goes to the table, and pours himself some wine. The cheeky urchin! Arthur’s whole body shakes with suppressed laughter. The trials of the day fall clean off. Arthur turns his face to one side and rests his cheek on his hand. Might as well get comfortable while Merlin gets drunk.

However, Arthur doesn’t have to wait much longer. Merlin swiftly exhausts every other viable hiding place, and finally gets down on his knees to look under the bed. “I found you,” he says drily.

“You took your time.” Arthur slides out, and dusts himself off.

“Well, I thought that was how people did things around here. You know, going all around the houses and getting drunk rather than explaining things clearly.”

“It’s different in Ealdor?”

Merlin nods.

“But you do like it here? You’re not planning on leaving?”

“No.” Merlin takes a step closer, and eyes Arthur curiously. “Would you miss me?”

It’s hard, nigh on impossible, to be direct when it comes to matters of the heart. Like the lance and the sword, directness and truth leave no room for misunderstanding. Arthur is afraid.

His cheeks burn like they’re on fire and it’s all he can do to hold Merlin’s gaze. Yet, it’s there in Merlin’s eyes, the possibility. The hope. So Arthur says with all the sincerity he feels, “I would miss you every minute of every day.”

Merlin takes another step closer. They’re a breath apart. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Heart pounding like an army of drums, Arthur nods.

“Then why didn’t you just say?”

Arthur wipes the grin clean off Merlin’s face with the tenderest of kisses. Their lips touch, and _oh lords and ladies_ , Merlin’s mouth! His lips are sweet, pliant and responsive. He makes a soft sound and opens for Arthur, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck like he might never let him go.

Arthur backs Merlin towards the bed, and pushes him onto his back. Though arguably, Merlin jumps most of the way, and lands with a satisfying _whump_.

“You’ve done that before.” Arthur covers Merlin’s knees with his hands, and leans over him.

Merlin lifts his arms above his head, in complete surrender. “Once or twice.”

Sliding his hands up the length of Merlin’s lean thighs, Arthur finds the hem of Merlin’s tunic. Peeling it up, he seeks out Merlin’s skin. Breathing in his scent, of earth and herbs and a feeling of home, Arthur nips at the sparse flesh on Merlin’s flank. Merlin wriggles, giggles. The sound is pure joy.

Climbing Merlin’s body, Arthur slots in beside him. In Merlin’s sky-blue eyes, it’s almost as if Arthur can see a golden sun shining. “You’ve made me a fool for you.”

“Does that make us even?”

Merlin’s testing the waters. Toe in, maybe a foot.

“Open your legs.”

Arthur slides over Merlin’s thigh, and settles atop this impossible man. Only a complete idiot would mistake Arthur’s arousal—

 _“Oh,”_ Merlin says.

Merlin lifts his hand and touches Arthur’s face. He runs his fingertips over Arthur’s cheek, then lifts his face to kiss Arthur softly on the mouth.

He’s submerged to the waist at least, Arthur thinks, relief washing over him. But just to make sure, Arthur tilts his hips forward and thrusts gently. Just the once. Just to send the message loud and clear.

Merlin’s head falls heavily to the bed. A smile as big as summer breaks across his face. “Oh my. Your _Highness_!”

At last. There is no misunderstanding the eagerness in the way Merlin reaches down to palm Arthur over his trousers. No hesitation as Arthur whispers his intentions, plain and true.

The more difficult things, like love and trust, will slowly come. Will grow stronger in time. Arthur believes this with all his heart. Only an idiot wouldn’t.


End file.
